Well, if I am being monitored, tell me what hand gesture I'm giving you right now. (Mommio's comments are always so nice (yet so perfect) that I feel the need to balance them out with naughty. Of all the forums I've ever posted in, Mommio has to be by far the classiest poster I've ever run across).
Ok jonahpwll, who are you working for? The RIAA? Emu's infamous Gang of Two? Dick Cheney? Not Sony, say it ain't so! If I buy more Michael Jackson, will you turn off the cameras?
@thirsty - thanks for the compliment. I try to remember that a message board is a public place, and I don't want to look more uncivilized than I already am, and a little bit of sass is sometimes necessary. I fear I sometimes come across as Goody Two-Shoes. Horrors!
# mommio - No, not a Goody Two-Shoes. More like a female version of Dos Equis XX Beer's Most Interesting Man In The World. Sophisticated. Classy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2SSZA0CjdQ I, on the other hand, will often post just to try to draw a response. Sometimes something interesting happens, somebody is inspired and picks up the ball and runs with it. Sometimes it falls flat and I look silly. Oh well. I'm a very silly person.
# jonahpwll - I'm going to get a shower now. Please turn off your monitoring devices. Believe me, this is for your own protection.
In an immense room filled with beige cubicles containing a chair in front of a single desk occupied by exactly three flat panel monitors and a keyboard, the fluorescent lights abruptly black out bank by bank with metallic clanking sounds and a single piece of paper with the word thirstyear written on it in block letters falls lightly to the floor from one of those desks.
As the agent called jonahpwll lets the door close upon his posterior he silently curses the door, turns and locks it, and lightly brushes the nameplate on the door that reads ATT Switching 1050.
The door waits until the agent is at a distance, puckers its in-slot and blows a silent raspberry. From the now-rounded slot crawls what looks, at first glance, to be a buff-coloured insect. To closer inspection it would be revealed as a miniature automate, its one eye a video camera, its ears sound receptors. It scuttles discretely in the wake of the agent, slipping deftly into the lift just before it begins its descent.
As the elevator makes its way down to the lobby, the automate climbs agent merrimac's clothing flattening and changing color to match the agent's horrid cheap green plaid sport jacket.
Ducking, diving, weaving, bobbing, thirstyear butterflied from pillar to post his latest miss can i have one of these? The woman leaned over the counter, severe American, you want candy? thirstyear flustered and out went his feet, plish squish splosh the level rising.
Lift stop open gates deep cavern beetle crawls out of picket justintime. The kraken flops blup blup blup there are said to be crocs down here.
chattereerily the cold courses down...only down. + the depths prepare the walls the floors the fixtures for the performance, the ballet, the symphony, the play and the sermon.
plenty of seating intones someone - perhaps a ballerina whose voice we never hear.
the collection, in seating, sense their own time-worn whole. the behavior of each, whether it be cbcd examining the pew for any obstructions or jonah stumbling thru along the kneeler, comprise an intertwined resignation. and the resignation runs end to end and at each point along the way.
i think i recognized that! katrina manages.
what? amclark half-heartedly exhales.
that sound - just now...over there...from behind that darkened corner. it was the first few notes from a mahler piece... interrupted.
you must stop that. nereffid genuinely believes there is a symphony somewhere nearby, just out of sight, just out of ear, just out of... trails cafreema.
thank you again for joining us for this evening's sermon. one moment please. and the vague figure who delivered these words recedes from the lectern and finds rest to the left of the congregants, alongside the altar.
thank you again for joining us mimic tone - what choice did we have?! - tim
ssssshhh comes from an unknown further along the pew
ah, the librarian has shown up again! - tim. the librarian being a pet name - given to a voice that follows each of the attendants; its owner unknown and characterized by mild rebuke.
Captain __________ scowls and spits a long brown stream of tobaccy juice into the bucket as she steers the Merrimac around another big ice burg, keeping an eye out for the submerged parts. Why the hell they needed to hold this meetin' in a revived confederate tin can ship in Antarctic waters in August is well beyond me. sure, sure, without all this damned ice it just wouldn't be cool enough for 'um.
the congregants appear to all awaken, as if they have missed a few opening remarks - engaging the pulpit with a shadowed figure's words referencing st. mark, or st. luke, or st. matthew being the source of the evening sermon.
nereffid withdraws pencil + opens the sermon handout. notes the attribution to st. mark and inspects the print closer. the work of an unknown eraser hastily returned "st. mark" to it's elation - someone had clearly lined over "mark" and in the space above entered "kreskin". st. kreskin! - a thin rapture ran thru his thoughts...his pencil in flight he lines out "mark" and above enters "Minimus". the game continues... he chances a glance further down the pew and sees hands performing the same task...that HAS to be 68! he tries to convince himself.
deep in the bowels of the ship we see the galley where Cheff Kafreema busily prepares the after-meeting feast. today's menus consists of simple, time honored mid-western fare; corn on the cob, steamed clams, lobster claws, and a scrumptious walrus-face soup.
see the clams lined up for their dance - little necks stretched out, pert noses held high.
smell the delicious odor of walrus stewed in treacle.
and there - just behind the chef, hanging on a rusty nail - why it appears to be - why it certainly is - he's stolen my shoe-horn! the fiend!
well how else would he make walrus-face soup? but still. it was my favorite shoe-horn. from the county fair in '11. pure walrus ivory, with a scrimshawed picture of the Queen.
The chef notices Captain _______________ eyeing the ivory shoe-horn hanging behind him, and smiles inwardly. If she only knew that tonight's walfus-face soup was just a cover for the shoe-horn's true purpose. She was certainly in for a shock when the Merrimac met up with Captain Beria and the Monitor.
Thirstyear runs, runs, runs, lippety-lip down Louisville, down Witherspoon, down Witherspoon runs, turns down River Rd heading for the Waterfront, water rising, heading for the soccer park under water, lippety splash.
pulpit figure fumbles with light attached to and serving the pulpit's top surface. switch engages and a semblance of something brighter runs from source to surface. much better. yes! today's sermon comes from st. mark!
his hands, with absurd adornments, enter and trick the meager light into a performance more often associated with a charms reader.
st. mark was a modest man. perhaps his greatest challenge came to him in rome when he was assigned the task of replacing the celebration designed to subdue the god of mildew
Comments
(Mommio's comments are always so nice (yet so perfect) that I feel the need to balance
them out with naughty. Of all the forums I've ever posted in, Mommio has to be by far
the classiest poster I've ever run across).
How do we know that aren't slacking off
Who is monitoring the monitors monitor
Well, monitor THIS!
If I buy more Michael Jackson, will you turn off the cameras?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2SSZA0CjdQ
I, on the other hand, will often post just to try to draw a response. Sometimes something interesting happens, somebody is inspired and picks up the ball and runs with it. Sometimes it falls flat and I look silly. Oh well. I'm a very silly person.
# jonahpwll - I'm going to get a shower now. Please turn off your monitoring devices. Believe me, this is for your own protection.
Yes, you.
As the agent called jonahpwll lets the door close upon his posterior he silently curses the door, turns and locks it, and lightly brushes the nameplate on the door that reads ATT Switching 1050.
Craig
pause.
video signal strong. audio coming in...a little more...good. give me a temperature read.
63
huh? zoom in on merrimac.
pause.
christ, he's sweating up a storm. confirm that temp.
63. confirming six. three.
Lift stop open gates deep cavern beetle crawls out of picket justintime. The kraken flops blup blup blup there are said to be crocs down here.
thirstyear runs runs runs as the water rises.
plenty of seating intones someone - perhaps a ballerina whose voice we never hear.
christ 68! deflects the cold, agitation will do that always the damned sermon!
68: yes...that is true
i think i recognized that! katrina manages.
what? amclark half-heartedly exhales.
that sound - just now...over there...from behind that darkened corner. it was the first few notes from a mahler piece... interrupted.
you must stop that. nereffid genuinely believes there is a symphony somewhere nearby, just out of sight, just out of ear, just out of... trails cafreema.
thank you again for joining us mimic tone - what choice did we have?! - tim
ssssshhh comes from an unknown further along the pew
ah, the librarian has shown up again! - tim. the librarian being a pet name - given to a voice that follows each of the attendants; its owner unknown and characterized by mild rebuke.
the congregants appear to all awaken, as if they have missed a few opening remarks - engaging the pulpit with a shadowed figure's words referencing st. mark, or st. luke, or st. matthew being the source of the evening sermon.
nereffid withdraws pencil + opens the sermon handout. notes the attribution to st. mark and inspects the print closer. the work of an unknown eraser hastily returned "st. mark" to it's elation - someone had clearly lined over "mark" and in the space above entered "kreskin". st. kreskin! - a thin rapture ran thru his thoughts...his pencil in flight he lines out "mark" and above enters "Minimus". the game continues... he chances a glance further down the pew and sees hands performing the same task...that HAS to be 68! he tries to convince himself.
see the clams lined up for their dance - little necks stretched out, pert noses held high.
smell the delicious odor of walrus stewed in treacle.
and there - just behind the chef, hanging on a rusty nail - why it appears to be - why it certainly is - he's stolen my shoe-horn! the fiend!
well how else would he make walrus-face soup? but still. it was my favorite shoe-horn. from the county fair in '11. pure walrus ivory, with a scrimshawed picture of the Queen.
Kraken surfaces
"Take me to Cairo."
his hands, with absurd adornments, enter and trick the meager light into a performance more often associated with a charms reader.
st. mark was a modest man. perhaps his greatest challenge came to him in rome when he was assigned the task of replacing the celebration designed to subdue the god of mildew